


Restless

by eezos



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anxiety, Canon-typical language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 09:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eezos/pseuds/eezos
Summary: Tucker isn't used to waking up in hospital beds, but Wash is.





	Restless

**Author's Note:**

> Well hey, I haven't written anything of significance in forever and nothing RvB-related like, ever, but I had to get this out of my head so here you go! Might turn this into something, might not.

He wakes slow and heavy, fighting toward the surface of awareness and it's harder to stay afloat than he thinks it should be. He feels strange; too weighty and not fully himself, like his head is a little bit detached from his body and it freaks him the fuck out - or it should, anyway, but his brain is too focused on just staying above the break of consciousness to spare any panic just yet. The soft hum of medical equipment seeps into the background, at first just a strange mix of noise tangled together until he starts sorting it all out. The rhythmic pump and hiss of a nearby ventilator, the steady beeping of monitors, muffled footsteps carrying down a hallway. It's familiar, but not exactly comforting.

He's in a hospital. It's probably a good thing, considering the last piece he remembers is kneeling in the dirt, desperately trying to keep his insides _on the inside_ while Felix monologued like an asshole above him and Church screeched like an asshole within him. He remembers Felix twirling the combat knife around in the air, so slick with blood - his blood - that it whipped a few droplets of red away, which in retrospect seems like kind of a weirdly specific thing to notice when you're probably dying, but whatever. He remembers things going deep and foggy, Church's voice a frantic stream of expletives in his head and thinking _Wash is gonna be so pissed_ , unsure if the thought was actually his or Epsilon's or both of them.

Which, like, thank god he's still alive because how fucking cliche if _that_ had been his dying thought? Tucker always figured he'd go out with a badass one-liner or maybe even a final heroic _bow-chicka-bow-wow_ just to stay on brand, not whatever the hell that had been. He tries not to focus on it too much, pushes it back down under the surface to examine later - or maybe never, because it was stupid and probably just a side-effect of too much blood loss. 

Consciousness solidifies more fully beneath him and holds steady enough that he forces his eyes open, his body complying a lot slower than he's comfortable with. The lights in the room are dimmed but the fluorescent quality still stings and sets off a headache almost immediately, the stab of pain dulled partly by the IV drip in his arm, feeding a mix of painkillers and antibiotics into his system. Probably a sedative too, judging by how sluggish he feels. He spends a moment just staring up at the ceiling and listening, trying to gather his bearings and ignore the suggestion of panic starting to bubble up inside him. 

He isn't used to waking up in hospital beds like this, disoriented and missing chunks of time, unsure how he got where he is or what was done to him between then and now, if he's going to be okay or if he's still dying. Tucker's never really had an anxiety problem - at least not enough for it to be like, a _thing_ \- but he can feel it slithering into his chest as he shifts his gaze to the bank of machines set up beside him. It's foreign and unpleasant, and he doesn't know what to do about it. 

He tries to swallow the panic back down and the ragged flare of pain in his throat catches him off guard, making his heart stutter wildly and all the air catch in his lungs. They put something down his throat. _They put something down his throat --_ he can feel it raw and aching and he can't breathe, _holy fuck he can't breathe_ \--

The steady soft beeping from one of the monitors skips and grows increasingly frantic in time with his heart rate, which just makes everything worse, telegraphing each irregular throw of his heart back at him. There's an abrupt slide of movement to his left and he lifts a hand, slow and uncoordinated, not really sure if he's trying to scrabble at his throat or cover his ears or just reaching out. 

"Hey, you're okay - christ, Tucker, breathe. _Breathe._ You're alright, come on."

Wash is there, grabs his hand and pulls it toward himself, pressing Tucker's palm firmly against his chest as he leans closer. He splays his fingers over Tucker's, almost intertwining them but not quite, and exaggerates a few deep breaths so Tucker can feel the motion.

"Here, come _on_ Tucker. You're fine, just breathe, it's okay, you're okay-" Wash repeats the words over like a mantra, his voice urgent but anchored and sure, the rise and fall of his chest under Tucker's hand something solid to grasp onto, so he does. He blinks and tries to focus on Wash instead of the ceiling or the machines or the burning in his throat or the fact that he's definitely dying. His fingers curl into the freelancer's shirt and Wash squeezes his hand, moving into his space and all Tucker can think, so up close, is that he never realized Wash had so much gray in his hair. 

It's such an absurd fucking thought but for some reason that's what does it, his chest heaving finally and ripping a breath out of his lungs. The effort hurts, it fucking sucks, it burns up raw through his windpipe and drags out a painful fit of coughing with each gasp of air but Wash is there, leaning so close their foreheads almost touch. Wash keeps his breathing steady and deep, holding Tucker's hand to his chest and trying to get the soldier to match him, nodding in encouragement even though Tucker's breathing is still shocky and shallow. 

It feels like an eternity before the constriction in his chest finally eases up, and even then each exhale is shaky. For a moment Wash's forehead drops to rest against his own and Tucker closes his eyes. They stay like that for a few seconds, just breathing together in a dim hospital room, and then Tucker says, "Dude. Are we having a moment?"

He means for it to be a joke, but his voice comes out weirdly hoarse and it startles him, falling a little flat at the end. They're not having a moment - just being, like, sappy assholes or some shit - whatever it was, it's gone in an instant. He can feel the tension stiffening Wash's shoulders as he leans away, rolling his eyes and expelling one of those _'You've got to be fucking kidding me'_ sighs. "No, Tucker." That soft quality to his voice is gone, replaced with the familiar rasp of exasperation. "We aren't having a moment. You were having a panic attack." Wash starts to move backward, letting go of Tucker's hand and sinking back into his seat but Tucker's fingers clutch at his shirt of their own accord. Wash stills and looks at him, but Tucker doesn't know what he was going to say, so instead he just bristles.

"I wasn't having a panic attack," he says, but it comes out way too defensive.

Wash looks at him like he's insane; the same way he looks at the Reds when Sarge inevitably offers up some ridiculously intricate ploy that ends with Grif getting shot as a solution to every problem that arises; the same way he looks at Caboose every time he befriends some killer machine and tries to bring it home. He's looking at Tucker that way now, an exhausted kind of disbelief as he reaches to grasp the aqua soldier's hand balled up in his shirt.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much, being looked at like that. 

"Tucker--" Wash says his name all soft and shit, on the end of a sigh, but whatever else he's about to say dissipates into the space between them as the sound of hurried footsteps skidding down the hallway grows louder. Wash clears his throat and leans back further into his seat next to the hospital cot, gently removing Tucker's hold from his shirt just as the door opens and Dr. Grey appears.

"Agent Washington," her voice lilts up in a sing-song kind of way as she sweeps inside, robe hastily tied over her sleep clothes. "I'm not sure what _'no after hours visitors in the ICU, go get some rest_ ' means in Freelancer terms, but around here it means no after hours visitors in the ICU, and I'd like you to go get some rest!" She says it cheerily and gives his shoulder a friendly pat as she joins them, but Wash looks sufficiently chastised.

"Oh good, Captain Tucker - you're awake! How are you feeling?" She's already got her bioscanner out and is passing it over him before he can answer, eyeing the vitals on the screen with interest. 

"Like shit," he supplies, and Grey hums thoughtfully.

"He had a panic attack," Wash says in his Team Leader voice. Tucker shoots a glare in his direction and Wash's gaze is already there, holding steady. 

"No, I didn't. My throat just hurt." Tucker's still glaring at Wash as he retorts, and doesn't miss the way the Freelancer's scarred brow twitches in frustration. Grey is looking between the both of them, scanner stuffed awkwardly into a robe pocket, apparently satisfied. "Oh my," she exclaims brightly, perching her hip against the arm of Wash's chair. It's enough to break their attention from each other, both of them looking at her simultaneously. 

"Well of course it does, silly! You had quite a few surgeries to fix up that nasty stab wound and intubation was necessary for the length of anesthesia and initial recovery. We only just pulled the tube this morning, I'm sure it's still quite uncomfortable!" She folds her hands in her lap and smiles at him, before turning on Wash.

"As for you, Agent Washington, I appreciate your concern for the patient but I'll remind you that you were only recently discharged from my care yourself. Sleep-deprivation is incredibly counterproductive to a healthy recovery, so unless you'd like to extend your active duty restriction another week, I'd suggest you go and get some rest! Remember, it's doctor's orders, not doctor's suggestion!"

Even in the dimmed lighting, Tucker can see the ruddy color heating Wash's face. He doesn't move at first, gaze drifting back to meet Tucker's and they stare at each other for a drawn moment while Dr. Grey hops up and bustles about fiddling with the various monitors. Wash looks like he's battling with something internally, which isn't anything new except it feels like this battle specifically has to do with _Tucker_ and he isn't really sure what to do with that. Wash must come to some kind of conclusion because his jaw clenches, setting his mouth in a plain line. He gets up, sparing a glance toward Dr. Grey before murmuring a short "Goodnight, Tucker."

Tucker raises a hand in response but Wash is already retreating. He watches the tense line of Wash's back disappear through the door, attributing the hollow pit in his stomach to the fucking surgeries he's recovering from, or something. 

Grey appears at his side again, adjusting a bag of fluids with an amused glint. "Goodness, you two _are_ dramatic."


End file.
